82 I I I. · I · . . . I (;;c , .. I I I . I I .:.r I I :' I. . I . I I , ., - .. I . . . " . THE CR.ITIC5 7 .__ ,#"", . - -\ - . , ''' \ -- .. " ... " / . 1 ' " .,.-- ",.' ...----- o ON TELEVISION ROYAL PAIN BY JAMES WOLCOTT What we demand of our theatre is not a deeper insight into man, but a change of human scale: larger men, falling farther, tall men, with more to lose.-"He That Plays the Kzng," by Kenneth Tynan. I N "T 0 Play the King," the latest opus on PB S' s "Masterpiece Theatre" (four parts, beginning January 16th), Ian Richardson restores vanity to its rightful place in the art of acting. Like the late Sir Laurence Olivier, he is a master of the raised eyebrow, and he carries his head as If it belonged on a coin. His nose gleams like a dagger. His narcissism is cut so fine that he seems to be peeling off a personal supply of thin smiles. As the hard-right Prime Minis- ter of England, Francis Urquhart, who has attained high office through rat-fink deceit and betrayal (his initials, F.U., signify "Fuck you" in the tabloid press), Richardson addresses the camera in asides, à la Olivier's Richard III, enlist- ing the audience as co-conspirators. "Did you enjoy my little speech?" he asks, after announcing plans to call for a general election. "I thought my 'deep personal wound' was a rather good touch." His enjoyment of our enjoyment of his enjoyment runs counter to the an- guished, insular mode so many actors have adopted. Such actors are leery of appearing too slick and cozy in the world. Alienation seems more authen- tic. Some feel most authentic when they approach the animal condition, like Eric Roberts in all those made-for-cable mOVIes where he bares his raw physique and roars. If they could, they would cough up fur balls AgaInst the bombed backdrop of such naturalism, Richard- son's smooth line of attack stands out like ivory. Directed by Paul Seed and adapted by Andrew Davies from Michael Dobbs' novel of the same title, "To Play the King" is the equally exciting sequel to the acclaimed "House of Cards." The time is the immediate future. The Tory P.M., modelled on John Major-"That frightfully nice man who talked a lot about the classless society," according to Urquhart's description-has been dis- lodged. Soft, do-goody sentiments have no place now in the blue-pinstripe hi- erarchy of Urquhart's Tory Party, whose sole purpose is to consolidate power- to tighten its fist. Enough bother about the sick, the poor, the homeless. Such losers are excess baggage. The future be- longs to the financially fit. Unexpected resistance to this policy of malign ne- glect (Thatcherism with an injection of Nietzsche) pops up from the House of Windsor, where the Prince of Wales has ascended the throne. The new King, played by Michael Kitchen, fancies him- self more than a figurehead. "Trouble is, he has ideas, he has a conscience, he wants to contribute," Urquhart sneers. He thinks the King will be a minor pest. For once, he thinks wrong. When the King is not jogging around the royal gym (his is a joyless palace), he ponders the fate of England, how his feudal role might serve modem society He sees himself first and fore- most as England's environmental King. . , , 1 . II I " . I I . , _" I fill . . There's a hilarious parody of Prince Charles' BBC documentarIes, which shows the King standing on a wind- swept cliff as his troubled thoughts (heard on the soundtrack) are cast out to sea. Like Prince Charles, Michael Kitchen's monarch tugs on his cuffs and punctuates each phrase with a wince to show how keenly he feels every- one's pain. (It's a sensitivity that perme- ates his staff. His adviser on minority affairs is a light-skinned black woman named Chloe, played by Rowena King. When asked by Urquhart if she repre- sents all minority interests, she coolly re- plies, "Some I embody, and for the oth- ers I use empathy.") Along with its caricature of Prince Charles, "T 0 Play the King" features a blond Princess Diana figurine, who, since her divorce, has dwelt in what Urquhart calls "the House of Wounded Feelings." For comic relie there's also a Sarah F er- guson character, whose heaving chest and horsey appetites seem fresh out of a Henry Fielding novel. When her aged lover, to whom this Fergie has been dic- tating her memoirs for posterity, betrays her in print, he claims that he had no choice-his ass was on the line. 'What about my ass?" she cries. 'What about my ass? Doesn't my ass mean anything "'" to your "To Play the King" caused a scuffle when it was broadcast in Britain last November. Melvyn Bragg-author, television host, and full head of hair- upbraided Dobbs for sliming Prince Charles, claiming that a bit of dialogue implied that the Prince sent out for prostitutes. (A dubious claim: the conversation in question seems to concern old college chums or cronies, not hookers.) The press, at first focussed on the portrait of the Royal Family, wheeled its guns around at Bragg himself "Pompous, Dreary, Arrogant"